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The Prince’s transport was fast-far faster than the car taking his students.

It swooped over trees, skimming low as the repulsors bucked at the lack of solid rock under them. He pressed it harder. Too hard, tunnel vision, you fall and die, too slow, you don’t make it in time. Leave out the fact that you’re carrying banned weaponry and riding in a craft of what they think is the enemy. He gripped the weapon tighter and leaned down on the board, as the pack he shouldered hummed and chittered to itself.

He could smell it. With senses long tuned to the smells of aether, he thought he could recognize it, even. If so, they needed him. The box at his feet shifted. He dropped his center of gravity a bit, and it slid back to where it needed to be.

He could see the transport now, and he could see the dust cloud that shrouded the creature as it carried on its way. Four-winged birds attended it, and driven in front of it were monstrous vermin-it could only be one thing.

“Basilisk, you old failure. Garou was a fool!”

He pressed forward to intercept. There was no time like the present to atone for past sins. God taught him that.